


Faithful

by Septembers_coda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Biblical References, Character Death Fix, Dean is a Tease, Kissing, Kissing Games, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Pining, Pining Castiel, Plotty, Romance, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septembers_coda/pseuds/Septembers_coda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, Castiel meets Wormwood, a legendary figure of Heaven believed by most to be centuries dead. He’s not like other angels… and when he learns of Gadreel’s possession of Sam, Wormwood’s power could change both the hope of love between Cas and Dean and the Winchesters’ fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Waters Flow Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> Wormwood was a real Biblical figure: interpretations vary about whether he was an angel proper, or a fallen star/weapon of God, brought out to express serious divine wrath. From _A Dictionary of The Holy Bible:_ “The star called Wormwood seems to denote a mighty prince, or power of the air, the instrument, in its fall.”

Cas crouched in the mud of an abandoned farmyard and took stock of his condition, as coolly and logically as he could. He struggled with cool logic these days—the emotions, frailties, and myriad discomforts that went with being human were very distracting. Having spent a great deal of time with the Winchesters in the past few years, he had expected this. He had watched Dean become more volatile and illogical the less he slept and ate, while Sam became ever more silent and distant.

Each had their priorities. Dean was happy as long as he had sufficient quantities of loud music, greasy food, alcohol, and knowledge of Sam’s safety. He preferred it when the problems they faced were something a brawl or a gun could solve. Sam, on the other hand, was most cheerful when he was able to solve a problem by acquiring more knowledge, when a day passed when no violence occurred, he had clean clothes, and Dean was not unhappy with him.

They were not often happy at the same time, Cas noticed. He was forced to reflect on this as he tried to figure out how to care for his suddenly much more demanding body, and found that, the ephemeral idea of _happiness_ aside, just meeting his basic needs was challenging.

As he enumerated his many hurts—hunger, cold, itching skin, the deep ache of his wounded shoulder—he was puzzled to find that, though these added up to a dull, persistent misery, his greatest pain was not physical. It was a great, yawning chasm inside him that threatened to swallow every ounce of his motivation; it even sapped his ability to move physically, and it grew more painful and debilitating even as he struggled to identify its source.

The source, of course, was Dean Winchester.

He could not decide whether the pain was Dean’s absence, or the way it had come about. Both, the chasm informed him; definitely both. Dean had turned Cas away when he was in need. Dean wasn’t here. He did not know when, if ever, he would see him again.

He had not needed to become human to realize that he loved Dean. This he had known since he laid hands on him in the depths of perdition, and the feeling had only grown since then. Sometimes he literally wanted to kill the man, but there was never a moment when he didn’t love him.

And never a moment when he imagined it would be appropriate to tell him so.

He had cherished a bit of hope, in the midst of all his black despair, after he became human. He thought perhaps, with his grace gone, romantic love could be his consolation prize. It was strictly forbidden—indeed, it was blasphemy—between angels and humans. But there was no barrier now, no reason why he couldn’t, one human being to another, declare his love for Dean Winchester.

Except, as it transpired, Dean did not love _him._ He would not even tolerate his presence.

When Dean rescued him from the Reaper who had tried to kill him and took him back to the safety of the Men of Letters bunker, Cas thought his moment had come. He was trying to find the words, had begun to hint at them, when Dean had delivered the brutal blow that smashed his hope.

Cas recalled that he had, many times, heard humans ask, “How did it come to this? How could this happen to me?” He had never understood this phenomenon. Did these humans have faulty memories? Were they flawed in their reasoning, their ability to follow the clear line of choices that added up to their doom, as easy, from his celestial perspective, as a + b = c?

Yet now here he was, heartbroken and love-lost without ever having understood that he had a heart, that he could fall in love. He clutched himself, cramped and freezing and possibly dying, in the mud and rain and cold winds of the world, and he found that his equation was much more complicated than he ever would have believed. 

He might never know how it had come to this.

~* * * ~

Wormwood was tucked into a hayloft, watching the rain fall outside. The sweetly scented, dried grasses around him kept his fragile vessel reasonably warm. _Like the infant Savior,_ he thought. _Only I fear no wise man would bring me gifts._

__He did not know what good frankincense and myrrh, or even gold, would do him at the moment, though. He would trade any of them for a good pair of boots or a warm, waterproof coat. He would trade them all and the world together, if it would heal his grace._ _

__He had so little grace left he feared that soon, he would be human forever. And that was a horrifying thought._ _

__Not that he had anything against humans—not like many blasphemers he had heard, not like the heretics Zachariah and Uriel. He still burned with anger when he remembered them. So many of his brothers and sisters had died, but he grieved no death less than theirs. He did not miss them. They, and so many others in Heaven, had disregarded his words and even openly laughed at his faith. Laughed! As if an angel should even be capable of such a thing—as if faith were even a question, were not woven into the very essence of angelic nature. They were instructed to love humans above themselves, as the Father had made them in His own image. Only their love for Him should surpass their love for humans, whom they were made to serve._ _

__His brothers had asked him how he could love humans, and yet visit such great suffering upon them. They asked him why he kept his strange name. The answer to both questions was the same: it was given to him by God. He had made the waters flow bitter and many had died. He was as God had made him: bitterness._ _

__But, as all angels were intended to be, he was also love. Wormwood loved humans, as dutifully as he did everything else. He would not hear the blasphemers who cast aspersions on God’s most beloved creation, called them monkeys, or said that God had abandoned them and it no longer mattered what he had wanted, that he was never coming back and Wormwood might as well accept the new order._ _

__There was no order, no command but God’s. Until he returned, Wormwood would follow it, for millennia longer if need be—would obey the word of God that he remembered. And that word was: love them. Shepherd them. Reward the righteous and the pure, and punish the wicked and corrupt._ _

__But he could do none of that without his grace. That was why he carefully watched the angel who was now hunched under the leaning fence of the farmyard, waiting for him to make his move, to see if he were friend or foe. Man, he supposed he must say now, for this was the only one of the fallen he had seen with even less remaining grace than he—indeed no trace of it at all that he could see._ _

__The man was injured—perhaps from the fall, perhaps since. The vessel looked familiar, as the echo of the man’s grace he felt in the remnants of his own, but Wormwood couldn’t place him._ _

__He knew what the man waited for: for the last of the humans to leave so he could take shelter in the barn, as Wormwood was doing. He was so disgraced that he could not even sense the presence of another angel. Wormwood felt a surge of pity._ _

__He listened to the sounds below him, the two humans finishing their tasks for the day, and hoped that they would not spot the mysterious fallen one. He concentrated for a moment, wondering if he had enough grace to spare to turn the humans’ attention away from his brother, should he be in danger of being seen. He hoped this would not be necessary, because when he looked inward, he was again astonished at how weak he had become._ _

__It turned out no intervention from him was necessary. His brother was well-enough concealed, and the tired humans seemed to have little attention to spare for anything but their tasks. The female gave a last rough pat to a cow she had just milked, and the male called to a dog that nosed around in the corner of a stall, chasing mice, and the three of them left. They did not even glance at the muddy corner of the farmyard where his brother huddled under the leaning fence—not even the dog._ _

__It had been centuries since Wormwood had visited the earthly realm, and though few of his brothers and sisters ever spoke to him voluntarily, he had heard a great deal about how much the human world had changed in that time. Some angels claimed these changes were the reason they were no longer obligated to protect and love humans—they had fallen so far into sin that they did not deserve protection, they said, and also advanced so far technologically that they did not need it. Wormwood had argued, when anyone would listen, that this increase in sin indicated that they needed more guidance, not less._ _

__Although the world did look quite different now, he had not seen sin in any great quantity since he had fallen. Indeed, he had been shown only kindness._ _

__God had been kind in guiding him directly to a vessel. He had fallen to earth deep inside a remote, mountainous forest with no human dwellings near. He was badly wounded and leaking grace, and he knew that he might truly die, the final death, if he could not find a vessel very soon._ _

__Only minutes later, he sensed the presence of a human nearby. He had gathered his essence as best he could from the long, smoking rent he had made in the earth with his fall. A few flames licked lazily at the nearby foliage, but the earth here was damp from rain, and the fire would not go far. He knew the human would be in no danger from it._ _

__Wormwood had just enough presence of mind to cloak his divine presence so the human would not die or be blinded when he looked upon him. He nosed toward the human like a newborn pup seeking its mother’s teat, and found a small, brightly-colored structure made of some kind of cloth in a nearby clearing. It was just over half the height of the human who stood near it, staring in beautiful awe up at the sky, where streaks of bright light marked the continuing fall of Wormwood’s brethren._ _

__He could feel the man’s loneliness, and, deeper and more resonant, his belief, his rapture, his faith. He thought the world was ending, and perhaps it was._ _

Wormwood felt the deep, resounding cry of the man’s _yes_ before he had even asked his question. 

____

~* * * ~

Cas nearly fainted with relief when the husband and wife finally left the barn. He hoped there were no others he hadn’t seen or heard, because he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of this solution to his homeless problem before: there was always pleasant, warm shelter to be found among bovines. Of course, when he’d had his grace, he hadn’t needed shelter, so maybe that was why. Also, human life now did not seem to revolve around the raising of animals as it had the last time he’d taken a vessel. This modern world was far more complicated, and confusing.

He stumbled toward the barn, praying he wouldn’t be seen, that some rest among warmth would render his failing body more capable, would heal some of the debilitating pain. He had begun to grow used to the need for sleep, but this ravaging weakness was something different, and worse. He had seen Sam and Dean like this before, and they would have died without his intervention or help from each other. He did not have an angel to heal him, a brother to stitch him up, or even a dingy (but warm) hotel room to sleep in, so perhaps, when he lay down to sleep tonight, he would never wake.

He was dimly surprised to feel no pain at this thought.

Still, somehow, he shuffled forward. He entered the warm darkness of the barn and felt the large, warm presence of a cow nearby. He stumbled into the stall and embraced it, not caring for the absurdity of his actions. The heat, the imagined sympathy of another creature, even if it could not speak to him, was too much to resist. The cow gave a gentle, bemused snort, then a soft lowing, as Cas pressed his face into the rough hair of her shoulder and wept.

He had no strength left to start with surprise or think of fleeing when a soft voice spoke from the darkness above him: “Brother. Do not be afraid.”

~* * * ~

Wormwood gently hauled the prostrate form of his brother up the ladder into the hayloft where he’d made his shelter. One remnant of his grace appeared to be a slightly better than human strength. He hoped that was what it was, anyway. Perhaps his vessel had just been exceptionally strong. But he did not think an ordinary human could have climbed the ladder with a man nearly as large as he was slung over his shoulder, so he took comfort in thinking some of his power yet remained.

The man had fainted shortly after he had revealed himself. Wormwood did not yet know where he stood, if he was one of the faithful or a blasphemer, but his heart had wrenched at the look of resignation his brother—former brother?—had given him before quietly asking, in a ravaged voice, “Are you going to kill me?”

Wormwood felt deeply sad, but also affronted. “I do not kill my brothers,” he said, shocked.

Wormwood had to lunge forward and grab his brother as he slumped against the cow, sense fading from his eyes, and said, “If that’s true, you’ll be the first,” before he slid into unconsciousness.

Clearly this was a warrior of great experience, and, Wormwood suspected, many times betrayed. He still had no idea who occupied the vessel—if it could still be called that, since his brother’s grace was gone—but the human face looked familiar. 

He was beginning to be able to tell humans apart and function, at least roughly, among them, drawing on his memories from hundreds of human lifetimes ago, and sorting through rumors he had heard in heaven about what human life was like now. Things had changed since humans had first begun to gather together and build villages.

When he had walked away from his vessel’s cloth structure toward the faint glow between mountains that must be a great city, he’d had no thought but finding his brothers, trying to discover what had happened in heaven so that he could find a way to return. He had been startled when, sometime later, he had begun to experience _cold,_ and stones and bracken began to sting his vessel’s bare feet—indeed, to cut them so they bled profusely. He had stood staring down at his feet for a long time. He had not seen so much human blood in a very long time, and it had never been _his._ It dawned on him that, back at the structure the human had crawled from to watch the angels fall, the human probably had supplies to aid his survival—warm clothes, shoes to protect his feet. He should not have left these things behind.

Another human had walked up to him while he stared at his bleeding feet. He looked up, startled. He was so weakened in his senses that he hadn’t heard the woman approach, hadn’t even heard the car stop next to the highway. He had stared at her, the first human he had seen through a human vessel’s eyes, face to face, in centuries. He strained to remember what her features meant—her silvering-dark hair, the lines around her eyes and mouth telling him that she was an elder among her kind, her gentle manner telling him that she was good, perhaps one of the faithful. She had spoken to him, and Wormwood had strained to understand, to find words to give back. He had failed at the latter, but she had cared for him. 

Here, surely, was one of mankind whom he was meant to serve. Here was the reason angels were protectors—not rulers, not murderers. This simple kindness—a ride in a car, words of comfort, a gift of shoes to wear and food to eat. This was humanity. This was what the blasphemers could not see.

The woman had been reluctant to leave him, but had asked him where he wanted to go. He had thought hard about this; having gotten the scent of the city—burning, acrid, unholy—he no longer wished to go there. Finally he had asked to be left near a farm.

“You’ll look for work there?” she asked hesitantly.

He regarded her for a moment before answering. “There may be work for me to do there,” he had answered slowly.

“Well,” she said doubtfully, when she dropped him off on a gated road she said led to a string of farms, “I expect God will look after you.” 

She seemed surprised by how his face lit up when she said this. “Yes,” he answered. “He will.”

These were all signs, Wormwood reflected, as he peeled the cold, wet clothes from his unconscious brother and wrapped him in a horse blanket. The first human he had met had cared for him, ministered to his needs, so that he could make his way in this world, give back the kindnesses he had been shown. Even the humans who owned this farm unknowingly provided him with care. He had taken their shelter, drunk the milk and shared the warmth of their cows, and was now using these things to help his brother. 

He might not have remembered what must be done, if the woman who had stopped her car had not done these things for him. As she had done for him, he did for his brother—made him warm, bound his wounds. The woman had washed Wormwood’s feet, like the prostitute who had washed Jesus’s feet with her tears and dried them with her hair, only she had used water from a plastic bottle. 

“Good thing these camping supplies and the first aid kit were in the back of the truck. Always thought I might need ‘em sometime,” she had said, bandaging his feet. “Now hon, here. These are my husband’s, but he won’t miss ‘em. He doesn’t do any runnin’ anymore.” She had put cloth shoes on his feet and tied them closed; he had observed carefully so he could do this himself next time. “And he wouldn’t want you runnin’ around, freezin’ your feet and slicing ‘em to ribbons, either. You really need warm boots, but this is a far sight better’n nothin’. Good thing his feet’re bigger’n yours, not smaller. These ain’t a bad fit. What were you doin’ out here without any shoes?” she asked him for the fourth time. She seemed to have stopped expecting an answer. “Now, is there someone I can call for you? Someone who ought to be lookin’ out for you? You got family?”

“I do not know where my brothers are on this Earth,” he had answered, and she had started a little when he spoke. He had only said three words to her before, three words since he had taken this vessel: “Yes,” when she asked if he needed help, and “Thank you,” when she had given him water to drink, for he had found that he was very thirsty. He was learning how to use words as he learned to use this vessel. Without much help from his grace, it was coming slowly.

The woman had paused a long moment, looking at him. Wormwood gathered that there was something strange about the way he spoke; it made sense, since he found _her_ manner of speech strange indeed, but at least he could understand her, and she him.

“Lost touch, huh?” she said gruffly, as she finished tying his shoes. “Well. You barely look old enough to be out of the house. Can’t you call your folks?” 

Somehow Wormwood had intuited that she meant his mother and father. “I have no mother, and my father has been missing a long time,” he said. “But I will seek my brothers when I am stronger.”

She looked stricken. Her face was so mobile and expressive! Wormwood struggled to understand all that passed over it, and why; the remaining tendrils of his grace reached instinctively for her mind, but they were too weak to reach it. He felt half blind and deaf; the woman was unpredictable to his limited human senses—as now, when she leaned forward and embraced him, patting his back roughly.

“If you take care of yourself, you’ll get plenty strong,” she said. “Hon, I’d take you home with me in a heartbeat, but Bill wouldn’t stand for it. He says my heart’s too big for my own good. But anyway, I can tell you got somewhere to be. You just… got lost for a little while. Didn’t ya?”

He was staring into her face, trying to fathom what he saw there. He heard a catch in her voice and saw that her eyes glimmered with tears; he gazed at them wonderingly. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I am lost, but I will find my way.”

She patted him roughly again. “Well,” she said briskly, setting his feet inside the car—truck, as she called it—and stepping away from the door. “I expect you will; meantime I’ll get this heater runnin’ and you can get warm, first. Shut that door and put your seatbelt on, now. I gotta get into town.”

As Wormwood obediently pulled the door closed, she had gotten in the other side of the truck and started its engine; Wormwood had jumped at its roar. He had never been inside a car before, and worried that he was betraying his ignorance of the modern world, but she had laughed at his reaction. 

“It’s a mite loud,” she’d said, “but it quiets down once I put it in gear. Seatbelt, now,” and when he had glanced around him, having no idea what she might mean, she had simply clucked, reached around him, and belted a strap across his midriff. She had done the same for herself, and then Wormwood had taken his first ever ride in a car.

“Name’s Marnie,” she said as they started off, painfully slowly, down the highway. From the outside, it had seemed like the cars rushed by at great speed, but now that he was in one, Wormwood was sure he had never travelled so slowly in his whole angelic existence. “What’s yours, hon?”

He hesitated. He almost said “Jake,” which was his vessel’s name. Even among angels, his name was odd, and if she were a godly woman (which surely she must be, to be so kind and charitable) she might remember it from the Bible. Although he was not in there much, what was there would surely make her fear him, and that he could not bear. But he found he could not bring the lie to his lips. If he could give her nothing else, he would give her the truth. 

“Wormwood,” he said.

She looked at him strangely. “I’m startin’ to wonder about these folks of yours,” she said darkly. “How ‘bout I call you Woody? That’s my grandson’s nickname, ever since he decided he wanted to be a cowboy, like in that movie Toy Story that he loved.”

She hadn’t seemed to require an answer of him, as she often did not. She chatted with him for some time; he learned that the city was about 70 miles ahead, and that she had to travel 100 miles to get there, which she did once a month to get supplies she could not acquire nearer her home. He heard about her daughter, her husband, her grandson, and many other things he didn’t truly understand, but filed away carefully in his head for later, knowing they might help him understand how to make his way in the modern world.

She handed him a brown bag that sat on the seat between them. “You eat that,” she said, “soon as you get hungry, if you aren’t now. It’ll give me an excuse to go to Burger King while I’m in town.” She laughed. “It’s bad for me, but I love Burger King. Bill made me that lunch just so I wouldn’t go.”

Before they parted, she wrote her name and a number on a piece of paper and gave it to him. “You hold onto this,” she said. “If you get in a bind, and you’re still anywhere near me, you call. If I can help, I will, whatever Bill says.”

He thought of Marnie with gratitude as he finished washing his brother’s small wounds—he had left the large one, already bandaged, alone, fearing that tending it was beyond his skill. He tucked the horse blanket firmly around the naked form and looked down at the sleeping face, straining again to recognize it.

It made him think of when he had gone into hiding recently. He had been a recluse for centuries now, and many angels believed that he was dead. But there had been a few angels who had known where to find him, until rumors reached him of a great war in heaven, a terrible, bloody conflict in which many had died. His brother Enoch had asked him to join, to fight against the great traitor who would subjugate them all, but he had told Enoch what he had told his brother here: that he did not kill his brothers. He followed God’s command, and until he heard from God, he would let the blasphemers fight their own battles.

It was anathema to him, that the angels had taken up arms against each other, that some had even trafficked with demons. He had retreated into a corner of heaven that none knew, and had waited out the conflict and the little time since, until the Fall.

This one must be a blasphemer to some degree, for he bore an angel blade. But perhaps Wormwood should not begrudge him the ability to defend himself. He could not serve God by dying the final death, after all. He reflected that he himself might have to break his code, if the blasphemers tried to harm him. After all, he had sworn to protect his vessel when he had taken it. He must be able to give it back to Jake, whole and undamaged, when he returned to heaven. He set the angel blade carefully aside, out of his brother’s reach.

As he turned back to him, his brother stirred and woke. He flinched violently when he saw Wormwood, and Wormwood felt another surge of pity, so vivid now that he was closer to human. “All is well, brother,” he said softly. “There is no danger here.”

“That remains to be seen,” said the stranger, sitting up. He looked down at himself as the blanket slid off of him, and, oddly, flushed. “Who are you? Where are my clothes?”

Wormwood pointed to the peaked roof above him, where he had hung the clothes over a rafter to dry. “Name yourself first, please,” he said quietly. “I have provided assistance. You can trust me that far.”

The stranger swallowed. His eyes flicked away from Wormwood’s. “Inias,” he said, shifting nervously.

“You are not Inias,” said Wormwood calmly. “Inias is dead. And since your vessel’s face is familiar to me, and you feel a need to conceal your identity, I must guess that you are Castiel.” 

The stranger flinched and covered his face. Wormwood realized he fully expected him to kill him instantly.

“I told you,” he said softly. “I do not kill my brothers. Of which I am not even sure you are still one, since there is no hint of your grace remaining.”

“No,” said Castiel, lowering his arm, “it’s gone. I’m human. So you could kill me without even breaking your rule.”

“Even less than I would kill my brothers, would I ever raise my hand against humans, except at God’s command,” he answered. 

“And again, maybe your rule doesn’t apply to me. You don’t kill angels or humans, and I’m both and neither, and all of Heaven wants me dead.”

“Yes,” mused Wormwood. “I suppose they do, but I never blamed you for the whole affair.”

“Who are you?” Castiel repeated. “Even if we’ve met, I couldn’t recognize you now.”

“We have never met. I am Wormwood.”

Again, Castiel flinched. His eyes grew huge and he scrambled backwards, staring at Wormwood in horror.

Wormwood had expected this. Calmly, he took out a bottle—one of the two Marnie had given him that had originally contained water. This one now held milk. Castiel stared at him uncomprehendingly as he held it out to him.

“I took this from one of the cows here this afternoon—your friend, actually,” he attempted to joke. “The one you embraced when you came in. It’s good. Drink it. You need sustenance.”

“ _I_ do,” said Castiel, taking the bottle from him with extreme caution, as though it might explode. “But do you?”

“Yes,” said Wormwood. “I find that I do. Not as much as humans, but my grace was damaged in the fall. So I need help maintaining this vessel. Food and drink, and sleep. It is very strange, is it not?”

Castiel sipped the milk, still staring at him with enormous eyes, but he seemed to relax a little. “It’s so nice to hear someone say that. Yes. It’s all very strange.”

“Perhaps you have more experience at it, and can instruct me.”

“I’m still not very good at it. But I’ll do what I can.” Castiel greedily consumed all of the milk, and sighed, wiping his mouth. “Thank you. It was very good. Not as good as burritos, but still good.” He eyed Wormwood again. “Everyone thought you were gone forever, this time,” he said. “I thought about trying to find you, a couple of years ago. I was looking for God, and thought you might help.”

“I would have. Gladly. But we would not have found him.”

“I know,” Cas sighed. “I believe that you would have helped me then,” he continued, “but why don’t you want to kill me now? I killed so many in heaven, and you are here now because of me.”

“I did not know the latter, so you will have to explain it,” answered Wormwood calmly. “But the Leviathan are old enemies of mine, and I saw no blame in you for being fooled by them. God forgives, and instructs us to forgive. Also, I have been watching you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. And I have sorely envied you, brother.”

“Why in heaven would you?”

“Because you have been chosen,” Wormwood said, surprised. “Do you not know it?”

“Chosen… by God?” Castiel eyed Wormwood nervously.

“Who else? He gave you His most sacred task—watching over humans. His chosen humans—the Winchesters, those precious vessels you were sent to pull from perdition, and to watch over. You were brought back even from death to continue in this task. Even when the echelons of heaven ordered you otherwise, you protected them, because it was God’s will.”

“That’s not why,” Castiel said sharply. “Brother. I don’t want to die. But I don’t want to deceive you. God has never spoken to me. He’s never given me any task. And if he intended me for the task of protecting the Winchesters, I have done a terrible job of it. I just got fired from that job, in fact.”

He dropped his face into his hands. “I’m no longer any good to them, or to anyone. I’ve completely failed. I… I can’t do anything to restore heaven’s order, or undo what I’ve done. I’m just going to… go somewhere and live a human life. Somewhere I can never let Dean down again.”

“Dean. The one you rescued from hell?” Castiel nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “He bears your mark.” Castiel nodded again. Wormwood peered at his face, trying to read the emotion there, but his interpretive skills were not yet up to the task. 

“If you do not protect him because of God’s will, then why?”

“Because I love him,” Castiel groaned, slumping forward with his head in his hands as if the words defeated him.

~* * * ~

Wormwood smiled, and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “Of course you do,” he said, his countenance brightening further with hope. “You are faithful.”

Cas stared at the angel. _Wormwood._ If half the legends were true, he might be looking at the most powerful and dangerous angel left alive, now that the archangels were gone.

Angels thought of Wormwood as… ugly, almost, if an angel could be so. A creature apart from other angels. Mad, perhaps, strange certainly: God’s terrible weapon, one of the most fearsome denizens of heaven, wrapped in a manner so mild it somehow became threatening. Cas had always wanted to meet him, to understand for himself.

Well, now here he was. And if he was thought of as ugly, or strangely formed, in heaven, he had certainly chosen a beautiful vessel now. The young man he inhabited had almost eerily perfect features: widely-spaced, expressive, gray-blue eyes, curling golden hair, delicately sculpted jaw and chin, beautiful lips. Cas had extremely high standards for lips, after looking at Dean’s with increasing longing for so long, and these were nearly as lovely as Dean’s. Humans would call them a Cupid’s bow. And suddenly Cas realized what troubled him so much about Wormwood’s appearance: he had managed to find a vessel that looked exactly like the human perception of angels. If you put him in white or blue robes, he would look right at home in a Renaissance religious painting.

It could attract the wrong kind of attention. He wondered if Wormwood had any idea.

He did not know why he insisted on saying all the things most likely to make Wormwood decide to kill him, but surely Wormwood had not understood this last one. He did not understand that Cas loved Dean with… something other than divine love. If Wormwood knew his desires, he would surely revile him, perhaps kill him outright as the worst sort of blasphemer. Instead, he seemed to believe that Cas loved Dean because of extraordinary faith and obedience to God.

Well… was it not true that Cas was faithful? His faith had been sorely tested—more than any other angel’s ever had been, perhaps, and yet he still believed. He kept saying these things to Wormwood because he did not want to lie to him. For years, it seemed he had done nothing but lie. He could not tell the whole truth to Sam and Dean, and he could tell almost no truth to any other angel. Even when he told the truth, his words were too often misinterpreted, sometimes given a meaning almost opposite that in his heart. Wormwood thought that his greatest sin—his passion for Dean—was his most blessed trait, a sign of great faith. But was that wrong? He was not even sure anymore. He felt, deeply, as if he yearned to be _understood._

There had been silence between them for several minutes. Wormwood was staring openly, directly into his face. There had been a time when Cas would have found this perfectly natural, but he had spent enough time among humans that he now felt a little uncomfortable. He turned slightly away and cleared his throat.

“Your vessel is very beautiful,” he ventured after a moment, politely.

“Thank you,” answered Wormwood serenely. “I enjoy looking upon yours as well.”

“Yes. Old Jimmy was not bad,” he answered.

Silence fell again. Cas had no idea what to do or say, or what would happen next. He knew that, if he could not find a way to avoid angels, he would be dead in a matter of days. Sam and Dean could no longer help him, and on his own, in his effort to find an out-of-the-way hiding place, he had literally walked straight into the arms of an angel. It was a perhaps-literal miracle that he still lived. 

If Wormwood could be made an ally…

“Castiel.” Wormwood’s calm voice broke the silence. “You said that the fall was your fault. Was it all of the angels? Will you tell me what happened?”

“All but Metatron. Yes, I… I will tell you. But Wormwood. You may wish to kill me when I am done. May I… ask something of you?”

“Of course, brother.”

“If you do kill me—or if I die anyway; humans are so frail—will you help the Winchesters? Not forever, just once, perhaps. I can no longer help them; without my grace, I am no good to them. And there is something wrong. There always is, with them, but Sam… he was badly damaged by the trials—”

“He undertook the trials?” Wormwood sat forward sharply; Cas could not help flinching. “Be at ease, brother,” Wormwood said, and there was an edge of an emotion there that Cas struggled to understand—compassion? He seemed to hear it so rarely, he wasn’t sure. “The trials to close the gates of hell? And he is not dead?”

“No. He… Dean made him abort the last trial when he learned it would kill him.”

Wormwood nodded. He stared so hard at Cas that Cas felt a flutter of purely human fear.

“If it was the last trial, he should be dead anyway,” Wormwood mused. “Did you heal him? Is that how you lost your grace?”

“No, I… how would that make me lose my grace?”

“If you gave it up to save Sam Winchester. You did not know of this?”

“No… know what?”

“The prophecy. One will be born who can save the world, make it pure and clean again. And he will be sorely tested and he will fail. And he will plummet to the depths of perdition and be raised up again, and be made clean. And he will die, but the gift of final grace will bring him back.”

“I… I thought that was fulfilled long ago,” said Cas hesitantly. “I heard it a little differently than that. A different translation, but I thought it referred to Jesus.”

“No,” said Wormwood serenely. “It was made after Jesus, actually. Not long after.” Wormwood gazed at him again, that disconcertingly direct, clear-eyed stare. “Castiel. I believe the prophecy speaks of Sam Winchester. And I believe Raphael knew this, and sought to keep it from being fulfilled.”

Cas was flabbergasted. Heretical teachings were absolutely the last thing he ever expected to hear from Wormwood, who, he’d thought, was as Old Testament as they came. A million questions flew through his mind; he plucked one out at random and asked it. “What does it mean, final grace?”

“It means an angel gives up his grace to save a human. It can be done with another angel, too. But if Death has well and truly claimed a human and he cannot be rebuilt by angelic healing, it is still possible to heal him with your grace. I assume the angel would die; it seems to be a gift beyond grace, because the grace does not go into the human—the human does not become angelic. It might be as simple as a life for a life, but I have never seen it done, so I cannot be sure. That’s why I thought you might have given Sam Winchester your grace.”

“I did not. Metatron stole it from me.”

Wormwood gazed at him amazed again. “Castiel,” he said softly. “I think there is much you must tell me. And I realize it must be hard, after all this deception and betrayal, to surrender your secrets. So I will give you something in return. I will help the Winchesters, as you ask. If you die, or if you cannot save them, I will. I believe God would ask it of me, if he were here.”

Cas looked at Wormwood wonderingly. He did not say what he was thinking: that Wormwood was not usually an instrument of protection or healing. Quite the opposite: God had used him to bring destruction and despair, to wreak holy vengeance. But perhaps, though he was ever obedient, that had never been what was in his heart.

“Thank you,” Cas said softly, after a moment.

“You are welcome. Will you tell me your story?”

Cas took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said.

He did. All of it.

~* * * ~

“So Metatron is the next great traitor. Perhaps not, depending on your viewpoint. But he has strayed far outside God’s will, I am sure.” Wormwood stared off into the distance as he spoke, until he turned and directed a sudden, fierce gaze at—into—Cas. “And you fell in love with Dean Winchester.”

Cas forced himself not to quail as he wondered if these were the last moments of his existence. He sat up straight, ignoring how this pulled at the closing wound on his shoulder, and faced Wormwood. “Yes,” he said, meeting the angel’s eyes.

A change came over Wormwood’s face. It was becoming more expressive the longer they talked, and now he looked almost human as he sat forward and clasped Cas’s hand. Cas tried not to flinch.

“Castiel,” he said, squeezing his hand and staring earnestly into his face. “I am so grateful to have met you. After all these years—centuries—it is wonderful to know that there is still one angel who is pure.”

_“Pure?”_ Cas couldn’t hide his shock.

“Yes. Brother, I hope I may be forgiven for the sin of envy. The sacred love that you feel, the testing God has sent your way—I wish these had been given to me.”

“My love for Dean is…” He was about to say that it was anything but pure, that his thoughts about Dean certainly had not been. But something in Wormwood’s face, the intensity of his belief, stopped him. Cas had told Wormwood _everything._ He had not given detail, but he had touched on his sexual desire for Dean, and on his (now crushed) hope for a physical and romantic relationship with him. 

Wormwood was gazing at him again; Cas shifted uncomfortably. “But my alliance with the King of Hell,” he said, nearly choking. “And… the Leviathan. I… I was responsible for the deaths of so many, Wormwood.”

“You say this to _me?”_ Wormwood said, and Cas went cold. Wormwood’s eyes were blazing, and Cas felt that he now understood the awe and terror that humans must so often feel when they looked upon angels. “Wrath and ruin are what I _am_ in the eyes of our brothers, and humans,” Wormwood continued. “Do you fear me?”

Cas nearly said yes. He had been sure, and in moments still was, that Wormwood was going to kill him. But looking into his eyes, beneath the blazing angelic power, all he could see was compassion, and a deep, yearning sadness. 

“No,” he said quietly.

Wormwood softened, and the power seeped out of him, until he looked like a slightly dirty, scruffy, strangely beautiful human in a fleece pullover and sweatpants. “You strayed farther than any angel but Lucifer ever has, Castiel,” he said softly. “But then you found your way home. You came _back._ You made untold sacrifices to correct your wrongs. You attempted a greater redemption than any ever undertaken by any angel. For other angels—for _me_ —faith is merely an idea. But you—you have been through the _fire._ You gave up your life. And who could bring you back, who has that power but God Himself? Faith is your very existence.”

Cas could not speak, but a wonderful doubt crept through him, its tendrils rooting themselves in his belief that he had truly fallen, that losing his grace was only what he deserved. Was it possible that Wormwood was right? Could it be he was still truly on a path that God had set out for him, as he had always wished he could be?

Whether he was or not, he could only walk the path and see where it went. And the only place he felt it could possibly lead, the only place he wanted to go, was back to Dean.

~* * * ~

Dean had made a lot of sacrifices in his life. He’d done a lot of things he regretted. He’d come to feel that his life was mostly about regret, though he rejected it violently, tried to tell himself he’d only done what he had to do. Because he had to save the world, didn’t he? Most of all, he had to save Sam. That wasn’t even a choice, any more than the bones that moved his body, the heart that pumped his blood, were a choice.

But no regret had ever tormented him as much as turning Cas away—from the bunker, from safety and friendship, and from him.

He knew Sam would never have done it, even though he doubted Sam cared as much about Cas as he did. Sam just had a way of doing what was right—along, of course, with doing exactly what was most wrong with the very best of intentions. He was a Winchester, after all.

Cas was out there in the world—alone, hunted, powerless. Dean could not stop thinking about it. He had to find him. He had to believe that Ezekiel would keep Sam safe while he did.

But he didn’t believe that. And he couldn’t confess his doubts to anyone, now that Cas was gone. Why had he done it? Why had he not left the bunker with Cas and just told him everything, about how he’d had to let Ezekiel possess Sam, about how he didn’t trust him, about how he would never have turned Cas out into the cold if Sam’s life didn’t depend on it? Cas had made mistakes. He would understand when Dean told him he was afraid he’d made a terrible one, the worst one of his life, in trusting Ezekiel. Maybe Cas could find a way to help him, before it was too late. And really, he should be helping Cas, too—with the angel problem, which was gonna be their problem soon enough anyway, and with getting Cas’s mojo back. Even if he couldn’t do either, it was undeniably _his_ job to help Cas with the problems of being suddenly human.

Well, it might be too late now, but all he could do was try to find Cas. He’d made up a case to give him an excuse to leave. Sam was easy enough to dupe; Dean knew what to say to make Sam doubt his ability to hunt, especially since it was all true. Ezekiel was harder, but Dean thought he had managed it, and hoped that Sam would be safe enough for now.

Maybe he should have told Kevin what was happening, he thought, as he eased the Impala onto the highway and put the pedal down. But that was a lot to put on a kid’s shoulders, and Dean knew that secrets got harder to keep as soon as you told even one person about them, no matter how trustworthy that person was. Besides, if Ezekiel knew he’d told Kevin, who knew how he’d react. Dean shuddered, and resolved, again, to make it right. 

He had a lead on where Cas might be. He wasn’t as good at research or tracking as Sam was, but he had his own methods, and he knew Cas. There were some missing persons cases in the mountains in Montana, some mysterious deaths that had the look of angelic shenanigans, and even though Cas was presumably trying to hide from the angels, Dean just had a feeling.

He would find Cas. He had to.

~* * * ~

“There’s a problem with Dean’s story,” said Wormwood quietly.

Cas started awake. He had been dozing, the exhaustion from his wounds, cold, and hunger only partially relieved by shelter and Wormwood’s care. They had agreed to rest, hoping that Cas would be well enough to travel by morning.

“What problem?” Cas asked.

“It cannot be Ezekiel who healed Sam. Ezekiel is dead.”

Cold terror shot through Cas’s blood; he sat up suddenly, wincing as the motion jarred his shoulder. “What? Are you sure?”

“Yes. It is given to me to know all the angels, and to know when they die, although that power was damaged with my grace. Others have surely died since, but Ezekiel was already dead.”

“So the angel lied to Dean, and why would he lie if he wished only to help him?” Cas said with rising alarm.

“These are my thoughts. Sam is in great danger, and Dean with him.”

“We must help them,” Cas said, struggling to his feet. He reached for his clothes and plucked them down from the low rafters, but he swayed and nearly fell before he could put them on.

Wormwood stood and came to his side, taking his arm delicately. Cas felt a strange surge of envy. Although Wormwood clearly had very little remaining grace, and much less experience than Cas at inhabiting a human body, he was adapting better than Cas ever had. Cas had found he often used too much force when he had his grace, and was ludicrously clumsy without it. Wormwood was annoyingly graceful and precise.

“Sit down before you fall out of the loft,” Wormwood instructed him calmly. “I do not know if I could prevent you from injuring yourself further, and I cannot heal you.”

“But… Dean. We must get to him before it’s too late. It may already be too late.”

“We cannot be effective in helping him if you are not well. We can do nothing tonight. You must rest until morning.”

“I could call him. I should get to a phone and call him now.”

“What if he is with the angel, and the angel hears your conversation? We must go to him and separate him from Sam. And there is something else, Castiel. I suspect I know why Dean made you leave their headquarters.”

“I know why. Because I can’t help them anymore,” said Cas, feeling the despair rise in him again.

“Think on what you know of Dean,” said Wormwood. “What does he do? What is his business in life?”

Cas was nonplussed. “I…”

“He helps people, Castiel. Protects them, even strangers, even those who do not treat him well. And you are his friend, whatever mistakes you’ve made. He saved you from the Reaper. Even if it were true that you could not help him anymore, would he abandon you when _you_ need his help?”

“I… I don’t know. He did not give me a reason, and I… I suppose I didn’t ask him for one.”

“I listened very closely to your story, Castiel, and I have long been interested in the Winchesters even before you told it. When Dean does something ill-advised, is there not one reason that is always behind it?”

“Sam,” Cas whispered.

“Yes. Dean had to make you leave, because the angel forced him to. It is most likely that the angel is possessing Sam; that is the only way the damage of the trials could be healed. He or she could not risk meeting you, because if you regained your grace and could recognize him, or if you knew enough of Ezekiel to endanger the angel’s disguise, you could expose him.” Wormwood looked carefully into Cas’s eyes. “He must have held Sam’s life over Dean’s head. That is the only way Dean would abandon you.”

“Sam…” Cas repeated. The terrible fear nearly overwhelmed him. He was not used to the effect strong emotions had on his body now that he was human. He could not resist, could barely breathe as Wormwood gently drew him back down onto his bed of hay. “Oh, Dean,” Cas whispered, “what have you done?”

Wormwood was gazing at him kindly. Cas was finding his association with the older angel very pleasant. It had been a long time since he had been given such compassion. He had almost forgotten that this was what angels were supposed to be like.

“We will leave the farm in the morning, as soon as Art and Jenny finish the morning milking,” said Wormwood. He drew a piece of paper out of his pocket. “And you can show me how to use these numbers to reach Marnie. We need a ride.”

~* * * ~


	2. Gunpowder and a Match

Dean looked around cautiously as he pulled into the diner parking lot in the little Montana farm town. Hicksville—just what he needed. The aggressively white, male residents of Nowhereville had been giving him the side-eye ever since he rolled into town. The clerk at the gas station had been distinctly unfriendly when he asked where there was a good place to eat in town, saying he’d be better off going all the way to Billings if he was just passing through. His tone suggested Dean had _better_ be just passing through. At Dean’s jocular insistence, he’d named the diner, but he’d been even more tight-lipped when Dean asked about the disappearances in town. He doubted he’d have much better luck here.

Still, he had to eat sometime. The thought gave him a pang as he walked into the diner, remembering Cas’s pitiful gratitude for the burritos he’d given him in the bunker, before Dean had turned him out. He hoped Cas wasn’t hungry now.

He got seated in a corner booth, sighing when the hostess was unresponsive to his attempts to charm her. He looked around for a likely prospect to strike up a conversation with, feeling in his breast pocket for his latest FBI badge and reminding himself of the name on it. He had just about decided on a guy sitting at the counter when an older lady, a no-nonsense type in her late fifties, walked into the diner, spoke briefly to the hostess, then walked right past her toward Dean’s table. 

He scoped her out quickly, feeling for the angel blade concealed in his jacket. No sign of weapons on her, and she moved like a human, but some angels were pretty good at passing. Always a chance she was a demon, too, or—

“You Dean Winchester?” 

Dean blinked in surprise. The woman had stopped directly next to his table and was now looking at him with the frowning suspicion he’d come to expect in this town. He grasped the angel blade and tensed for battle as he said, “Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Marnie. Castiel said to tell you I was a friend of his, but first thing I gotta ask is, is Sam with you?”

Dean contemplated whether to answer honestly. She could be looking for Sam for any number of reasons, but if she thought he was here without backup, she might be setting a trap for Dean. He went with his gut.

“Nope,” he said. He stared at her, trying to take her measure, to think of what to ask next.

“Well? You got holy water?”

He stared at her again. Who _was_ this lady?

“Well, c’mon, then,” she said impatiently. “Castiel said you wouldn’t trust me any ‘til you’d sprinkled me. He said this would help, too.” She showed him her palm. A sigil was etched there, with a Sharpie, it looked like—a sigil that repelled angels. It proved she wasn’t one.

Dean took the flask of holy water out and splashed some on her with unwonted care. Hands weren’t a good enough test, but he couldn’t bring himself to toss it in her face for some reason, so he splashed her under the chin and down her neck. But she still glared at him.

“You didn’t have to soak me to the skin,” she muttered. “Satisfied I’m human now?”

“I guess,” he said guardedly. “Where’s Cas? He OK? Why didn’t he come himself?”

His words seemed to soften her for some reason. She leaned close and spoke quietly. “He says he can’t show his face, and neither can Woody,” she said. “I can take you to ‘em. But first I need a to go order. I forgot how much boys can eat, and it ain’t like me to see anybody hungry. So you go ahead and get your lunch to go, too.”

Dean was mystified, but he could think of nothing to do but obey.

“I gotta be the only woman in Montana—maybe the only one ever, that kept angels in her camper shell,” she whispered to Dean, as she led him to a great old behemoth of a truck in the parking lot.

“He’s back here?” Dean said disbelievingly. As they drew close, he saw that the camper shell had sigils of warding all along the outside. She unlocked and opened it, and there was Cas, blinking at Dean in the sudden light.

Dean knew secrecy was important, and that he should take care to find out if this was really Cas, and make sure he hadn’t been kidnapped or otherwise compromised. But when he saw Cas’s face, he couldn’t help himself. He grabbed the angel and pulled him into a rough embrace.

“Cas,” he rasped. “Cas, you OK? Listen… I’m—”

Cas stopped him before he could unleash the flood of apologies.

“Dean. I’m glad to see you. But we must hurry. Sam is in great danger.”

Cas knew the exact words to use to galvanize Dean into action, that was for sure. “What do you know?” he asked Cas sharply.

“We can’t be seen like this. And these boys gotta eat,” said Marnie, shouldering Dean aside and passing the styrofoam take-out containers into the camper shell.

“You can eat in the car,” said Dean. “Thanks for your help, Marnie. Cas, I’ll pull Baby up close so you can—”

“We are staying in here,” said an unfamiliar voice.

~* * * ~

Dean couldn’t get over Wormwood. The guy was _weird,_ even for an angel, although to be fair, he wasn’t really a dick. Way too pretty, though; this made Dean automatically suspicious. He couldn’t decide whether Wormwood or Marnie weirded him out more—the combination was what really did it. The fact that they had told Marnie _everything._ Even Cas was uncomfortable with that, but apparently Wormwood had given him no choice. And then Marnie! She’d _believed_ him, believed all the crazy shit about angels, demons, the Fall—Dean’s whole freaky life that he sometimes had trouble believing himself. Ever since he’d met the Djinn, he still had dreams sometimes, that he woke up in suburbia with Lisa or some other nice girl, couple of kids running around the yard, and _it was all a dream._ If only.

But Marnie had taken the story at face value, and had come driving out to the farm where Cas and Wormwood were hiding in her giant old truck, collected the two angels like she was picking her kids up at the pool, and brought them straight to Dean. Which was another bit of weirdness: they had arrived in town at almost exactly the same time, and Cas had recognized the Impala in the diner parking lot. When Dean pointed out the unlikelihood of this coincidence, Wormwood had smiled serenely, as if this were all in a day’s work. He was creepy—but Dean kind of liked him. He liked Marnie, too, although she gave him the weird urge to sit up straight, say please and thank you, and tuck his shirt in.

And Cas. Dean could feel his eyes on him all the time, and he wanted to look back. He’d have understood if Cas’s eyes were accusing, angry, but they didn’t seem to be, and Dean wanted to know what every look meant. He wanted to find a way to tell Cas how sorry he was, how good it was to see him again. More than anything, he wanted to make sure Cas never went anywhere again. But even if he could have snatched a moment alone with Cas, he couldn’t imagine saying the words. 

He’d followed Marnie to a nearby rest area, where she’d left her truck, and everyone got in the Impala, which felt too full with three passengers. He’d tried to insist that Marnie go back to her life, since she’d helped Wormwood and Cas enough and shouldn’t endanger herself. But she wouldn’t hear it.

“I’m seein’ this through, and that’s that,” she said calmly, slinging a duffel bag into the Impala’s trunk. She blinked at the trunk’s other contents, but then looked away from them deliberately. Dean thought maybe the guns, and especially the paranormal paraphernalia, psyched her out, so he deliberately lingered next to the open trunk, hoping to lure her eyes back to it, but she walked to the passenger side and got in, shotgun. Cas and Wormwood were already in the back seat.

Dean closed the trunk and got in the driver’s seat. “They give you any idea how dangerous this would be? By the way, most angels aren’t like them.” He glanced in the rearview and instantly caught Wormwood’s eye. He was staring directly at him unabashedly. 

Dean sighed and shook his head. He remembered when Cas used to do that, but this guy was somehow much more unnerving.

“Most? How many you met?” Marnie asked dryly.

“Way too many. They’re dicks. Hey!”

He uttered this last when Marnie smacked the back of his head. “You watch your mouth! You’re talking about God’s messengers!”

“Dean is right, Marnie,” said Cas. “We should prepare you. Whatever angel is possessing Sam, it is most likely that he or she is… a dick.”

She glared at Cas, but didn’t hit him. Maybe it was too much trouble to reach into the back seat. “Well, could it be one who’s… fallen?”

“We are all fallen, now,” said Wormwood.

“Well. That reminds me,” said Marnie. “First thing we gotta do, that you’re gonna need me for, is help Woody find his grace. I know right where to start looking—where I found him.”

“Woody probably remembers,” said Dean. “Or if he doesn’t, what are you gonna do in all those acres of woods? You can just show me the spot, I can drop you somewhere, and—”

“What am _I_ gonna do out there?” Marnie laughed, looking him up and down; Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he started the car. “What are _you_ gonna do? I’m retired from the forest service—park ranger. And I was a huntin’ guide when I was younger. If anyone can find where Woody lost his grace, I can.”

Dean scowled but said nothing. He really didn’t like this. He had no words to explain how tired he was of civilian casualties—of being responsible for them. But what could he do? She was right. They needed an angel at full power, and they were short on time.

“How could you lose your grace? Didn’t think it worked that way,” said Dean, ignoring Marnie’s smirk of triumph when he changed the subject. 

“I believed it was damaged—that my angelic form was damaged. This was due to my lack of experience on Earth, and in taking vessels. It was Castiel who explained that some—most, I believe—of my grace must be near where I fell. I was too dazed by the fall to think of it.”

“We will not be able to effectively fight an angel without him at full power,” Cas put in. “And since it is Wormwood…”

He did not finish. Dean looked in the rearview at them. Cas was looking at Wormwood… apprehensively? Really thoughtfully, in any case. Wormwood gazed back at Dean, perfectly serene.

Dean suppressed a shudder. “All right, Marnie,” Dean said. “Lead the way.”

~* * * ~

Marnie was as good as her word. She made Dean drive slowly once they reached a certain stretch of road, then had him pull over and she looked over the ground, keeping Wormwood with her. Dean thought their relationship was odd. She fussed over him and bossed him around like she was his mother, and Wormwood seemed to take this as perfectly natural. He obeyed her cheerfully, listened gravely and earnestly to every word of her chatter, and treated her with… reverence? It made Dean uncomfortable, but he realized Wormwood treated him almost the same—just without as much reverence and without all the touching.

Wormwood had the same issues with personal space that Cas used to have—worse, if anything—but only with Marnie. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she liked it. She patted him a lot, even hugged him sometimes, and where Cas would have stood, stiffly staring without raising his arms, Wormwood always hugged Marnie back, and touched her often of his own accord. He had none of the stiffness, even scorn, Dean had seen in other angels. He was downright affectionate. It was weird.

Marnie found a trail to follow, and she and Wormwood were off, with Cas close behind. Dean hurried to keep up. Damn, he hated hiking. But in a surprisingly short time, they stopped near a long trench furrowed in the earth, surrounded by broken bushes and one fallen, splintered tree.

Wormwood strode to the end of the trench. As Dean stumbled over the ridge, panting to catch up, he stopped in surprise. At the end of the trench there was a huge patch of burgeoning wildflowers, some of them close to six feet tall, growing abundantly, practically on top of each other. All colors and kinds, lusher than a garden.

Dean blinked. He hadn’t seen a single other flower that day. It was October.

He looked up when Wormwood murmured, “There you are,” and held out his hands.

~* * * ~

Easy as that, they were on their way back to the bunker. Wormwood couldn’t fly them there, since the place was warded against angels. Unlike Cas, especially at the beginning, he seemed perfectly content to ride in the car for hours. Dean put the pedal down and drove like a maniac, ignoring Marnie’s protests. He was too worried about Sam and Kevin to baby her with “legal” driving.

By the time they were getting close to the bunker, he had a plan for keeping Marnie safe. If they could take care of things quickly, it should work.

They pulled up a little distance from the entrance so they could sneak in, and when Wormwood and Cas hurried ahead, Dean held Marnie back.

“Listen,” he said. “We need to do this smart. There’s another entrance to the bunker, a back way where you should be able to find Kevin without running into Sam or whoever’s possessing him. Kevin’s room is near there. Tell him what’s happening, and the two of you can come through and back us up.”

“Good,” she said as he handed her the keys, glancing at his baby and suppressing a pang. “How do I get there?

“Bout three quarters of a mile up this road, take a right. Take another right over that bridge over the frontage road, park under it, there’s a door like this one and a keypad. Code is 99641; inside that there’s another door and a speaker button you gotta press and say the password. It’s ‘aqualung.’ Hurry, I’m counting on you, now.” 

Dean tried not to wince, worrying that that last part was a bit too much, but she bought it. “99641, aqualung. Got it. Go help my boys.” She got in the driver’s seat and drove off.

Dean shook off his guilt as he ran after Cas and Wormwood. She’d be pissed as hell when she figured out she’d been duped, but at least, hopefully, she’d be safe. There really was a bridge; she’d have to get out and get down the bank under it before she would see that there was no door. He hoped she wouldn’t get back to the bunker until the action was over.

~* * * ~

Dean shoved past the two angels to peer into the main room of the bunker, and gasped at what he saw. Sam—no, _not_ Sam, he realized with a thrill of terror—was advancing on Kevin with his hand stretched out, eyes glowing blue.

“KEVIN!” he shouted, and ran forward, but he was knocked against the wall when Wormwood blazed past him, seized the angel, and threw him to the floor. 

“Gadreel,” Wormwood hissed, and Dean stared helplessly. He was like another person—another _being_ entirely, his mild manner gone as he blazed with white-hot rage.

“Oh, no,” Cas breathed behind him. “Oh, dear God. Sam, possessed by Gadreel…”

“What does that mean? Who’s Gadreel?” Dean shouted as Cas hurried to Wormwood’s side.

Kevin scrambled back and stared between Dean, who rushed over, grabbed his arm, and shoved him behind him, and Sam on the floor with Wormwood standing over him.

“Sam!” shouted Kevin, and when Gadreel did not look up, he turned to Dean in confusion. “Who is that?”

“Another angel. They’re both angels.”

“Sam is possessed by an angel?”

“An angel that almost killed you, yeah.”

Kevin opened his mouth to ask another question, but they were both distracted when Gadreel screamed.

Wormwood was not touching him, but Gadreel was pinned to the floor, flat and straining as if a great weight pressed him down, and he writhed and screamed again. Dean was alarmed when a stream of blood ran out of his mouth, and he turned an ugly shade of putty-gray.

“HEY! Woody! That’s my brother in there!”

Wormwood turned to Dean, who flinched at the literally-blazing wrath on his face. Wormwood’s eyes were glowing—not blue, but a fierce orange-gold that also blazed from his hands into Gadreel. “It is also,” he began, and turned back to Gadreel with a look of pure rage, “ _my_ brother in there.” He spread both hands wider, and the arc of orange light sparked; Gadreel gave a strangled gasp as his body arced convulsively.

“Wormwood,” said Cas, seizing his arm. “Remember. You do not kill your brothers. Not even this one.”

Wormwood’s hands fell to his sides and the light winked out. Sam’s body slumped back to the floor, unconscious.

“What did you do to him?” Dean scrambled forward and knelt at Sam’s side. “Sam?” He held Sam’s face in his hands, peering intently at him. Blood from Sam’s mouth trickled over his hand.

“Castiel,” said Wormwood. “Quickly. You know what you must do.”

“HEY!” said Dean. “Regardless of who’s in there, he’s not lookin’ so good! _What did you do?”_

“Poison,” said Cas, kneeling next to Sam’s body. He cast an unreadable look at Wormwood as he gently brushed Dean’s hands aside and pressed his palm to Sam’s forehead. “Wormwood’s most deadly weapon. He can poison anything: angel, human, demon.” He seemed to realize something, and stared at Wormwood in horror. “No,” he whispered.

“It is the only way, brother.” 

“I should be the one. Sam is my friend.”

“And Gadreel is my enemy. My only enemy, the greatest adversary of all of us, and the one angel I will kill. Castiel,” He looked at Cas sternly. “You know what must be done.” 

Wormwood lifted Sam's body easily. “Take me to the warded room. Quickly. Bring the holy oil.”

Dean had moved to stop him, but he stepped back and watched mutely when he saw Cas, looking wretched and panicked, obey Wormwood’s orders. They went to the warded room and Wormwood set Sam’s body on the floor in the center. He led Cas forward and took his hand, pressing it to Sam’s throat.

“Gently, now,” said Wormwood. “I will guide you.”

“What the hell’s going on?” said Dean, pushing forward into the room.

Cas turned to Dean with a tormented look. “I will take Gadreel’s grace and contact Sam, Sam will cast Gadreel out, and the two of us will be trapped in the circle with… whatever is left of Gadreel.” He glanced at Wormwood uncertainly. “If he has no grace, and no vessel, what will that be?”

“The remainder of his… self. The equivalent of a soul, if he were human. Once I have destroyed it, I believe he will wind up in Purgatory.”

“He won’t last long there,” said Dean grimly. “But how can you destroy his… soul, or whatever it is? I thought nothing but an angel blade could kill an angel, and if he doesn’t even have a body—”

“Wormwood’s poison—when I said it could poison anything, I was being quite literal. It might be the most deadly thing in this world. But—” Again, Cas looked tormented.

“What about Sam?” Dean demanded.

“Yes,” said Cas, turning to Wormwood, “what about him? He will surely die once Gadreel is gone, if—”

“You know what must be done. I will do it. Castiel. We can wait no longer.”

Dean strode forward and grabbed Wormwood by the shoulders. “HEY! If you think you’re gonna let my brother die—” 

Wormwood showed no sign of pain or anger. He stared wonderingly into Dean’s face. Cas seized Dean’s hands and forced him to release the angel. “Dean,” he said, “He’s not. He will save him. We must do this now.” 

He pushed Dean toward the door and shoved a flask into his hand. “Make a circle, light it, and close the door. It will not be safe for you inside. Quickly, Dean, or Sam will die before we can succeed!”

All of Dean’s instincts told him he couldn’t leave his brother’s side, but Cas’s words galvanized him. He had to trust Cas, so he did as he had been bid, his throat closing in terror as he stepped outside the door.

“Close it. Quickly. I will shout for you when it is safe to come back in, so you can let me out of the circle,” Cas said through the flames. 

As Dean pulled the heavy steel door closed, he did not miss the implication behind Cas’s words: let _me_ out of the circle.

Not _us._

~* * * ~

Cas stood in the circle of flames, gazing in awe at Wormwood’s wrath revealed. His vessel hummed with Gadreel’s stolen grace. Taking it had been far easier than he ever would have expected. He suspected Sam had helped him, somehow. He had heard the echo of Sam’s mind—questioning, trying to escape.

Gadreel had been unable, in his poisoned state, to fight the theft of his grace. After Cas took it, he managed to reach Sam with the word Dean had given him, “Poughkeepsie.” That seemed to be all Sam needed. He had expelled Gadreel with alacrity, and looked into Cas’s eyes for one second, long enough to smile triumphantly before slumping unconscious.

Now Cas strained to heal Sam as fast as Wormwood’s poison was destroying him. It was like acid burning the walls of Sam’s cells, coursing not just through his blood, but through his very spirit. Cas chased it frantically, healing other damage as he went. He marveled at Sam’s strength, that he was still fighting, that he was alive at all. He had never guessed any human possessed such strength, and was not sure any other ever had.

But he was slipping, and Cas knew that before long, he would fall. His heart broke at the idea, that he could fail, after everything, to save his beloved friend, and shattered further at the thought of telling Dean of his failure—of seeing Sam’s death break Dean. 

For it would, he knew. And Dean was already so broken. Cas had nurtured a faint hope that in time, he could put him back together, but he knew that nothing could repair the loss of Sam.

While Cas struggled desperately to save Sam, Gadreel’s essence, separated from his grace and his vessel and trapped in the circle by the holy fire, was trying to fight Wormwood. Wormwood was utterly terrifying. He seemed to be twenty stories tall and made of flame, like the angels in the Bible, as he wrapped the struggling, withering angelic form in poison-orange tentacles and wrung it out of existence.

“Faithless,” Wormwood whispered, as a whine like a musical saw mated with splintering steel crescendoed, then abruptly died, and the light faded as Wormwood lowered his hands.

Cas could spare the battle no further attention. Sam was dying. He could not save him.

“Please, Wormwood,” Cas whispered, straining with all his purloined grace to hold Sam back from the blackness that reached for him. He knew what must be done, but he could not find the path, could not find the altar on which to lay his sacrifice. “Show me. I… I will gladly die…”

“Castiel.” Wormwood knelt beside him, laying his hands over Cas’s where they rested on Sam’s chest. “The only antidote to my poison is my grace.”

“No. I will do it. I will give Sam final grace.” Cas was weeping now. “I have failed them so many times, Wormwood. You should not die. You are faithful.”

“Castiel. Stop.” Wormwood drew him gently back from Sam. “Love Dean Winchester. Watch over him and his brother. I believe it was what you were sent here to do.”

“I would do anything– I would make the sacrifice—”

“You cannot sacrifice a grace that is not yours,” Wormwood said softly. “You must know that.”

~* * * ~

Dean had stood, agonized, straining to hear anything through the door, for several minutes, when Marnie suddenly rounded the corner, saw him, and said, “Damn you, Winchester, outta my way!” and clocked him with a surprisingly solid sock to the jaw. He was so surprised that he fell right on his ass, and before he could stop her, Marnie threw open the door.

“NO!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet, but she had already grabbed sand from the bag he had ready, thrown it across the fire line and marched into the room.

“WOODY! No! Don’t you dare!”

“Cas!” shouted Dean, surging forward and grabbing Marnie. She struggled and swore as he tried to drag her back out of the room.

“It’s all right, Dean,” said Cas, and Dean knew at a glance that he was an _angel_ again. His power, and Wormwood’s, thrummed in the floor beneath their feet. “The danger is over… for you.”

“Woody!” cried Marnie, straining under Dean’s arm. Her anger had melted and she was agonized now, pleading. “You’re not gonna do what I think you’re gonna do, are ya?”

Wormwood and Cas stood over Sam’s body. Wormwood looked at Marnie, and smiled so beatifically at her that it froze her in her tracks. She stared at him wide-eyed, as if she were trapped by those luminous blue-gray eyes. 

“Yes, Marnie. I must save Sam.” He took Marnie’s hand as he spoke. Dean released her, and she began to weep.

“Why?” she said through her tears, squeezing Wormwood’s hand. “Why is he more important than you? You’re an angel, a real one! I waited my whole life to meet you, and… and I wanted to help you,” she choked, wiping her face.

He touched her face tenderly, and she grew still, gazing up at him. “You did help me, Marnie,” he said. “More than I can repay. You have given me the faith I needed. If you have always wanted to meet an angel, I have always wanted to love a human. And now I have. I got my wish before the end. God is kind.” 

He bent and kissed her brow; she sobbed and clutched him in a tight hug. “I love you, too,” she said into his shoulder. “Ain’t there any other way, Woody?”

“There is not. Will you help Jake, my vessel, as you have helped me? He was lost when I found him, Marnie, and there is no one in his life to help him find his way. He has no family.”

“You know I’ll help him, and Sam and Dean too, if I can,” she said.

“And my brother Castiel. If you wish to know an angel, he is worthy of your love, too.”

“Cas is OK. But he ain’t my angel. There’s only one of those.”

Wormwood’s smile was so bright, Dean felt like he should shield his eyes. He could think of no words to give the angel who would die for his brother, someone he had known such a short time, and whom Sam would never know at all.

“Goodbye, Marnie. Castiel. Watch over them.”

He knelt next to Sam, placed one hand on his chest and one on his forehead, and before anyone could say another word, a blaze of blinding light filled the room, and there was a swell of sound Dean thought was music, but which his mind couldn’t make sense of, and he thought some time had passed when he heard Cas saying his name, felt him grip his arm.

Dean shook himself. “Sam?” He forced his eyes to focus and saw Wormwood’s form slumped unconscious over Sam’s. Marnie brushed past him and pulled Wormwood—Jake, now, he guessed—off of Sam.

Dean stumbled to Sam’s side. He still had no idea what had happened and didn’t care; his whole world was reduced to whether Sam was breathing or not, whether he would open his eyes or not. He seized Sam’s face in his hands, felt his breath over his fingers and nearly sobbed with relief.

“Sam,” he said again, willing his eyes to open.

Miraculously, they did. He blinked fuzzily for several long seconds and said, “Dean?”

“Yeah, brother. I’m right here. You OK?” Dean struggled to hold back tears. The joy at seeing his brother behind those eyes at last, the relief, was so intense it was a physical pain in his chest.

Sam shook his head. Dean couldn’t tell if this was an answer to his question, or just Sam trying to free his head from Dean’s grip. Dean let him go, staring into his brother’s face apprehensively.

Sam lifted his head and sat up on his elbow to squint at Dean, as if looking for something in his face that he couldn’t see. 

“You… _asshole.”_ Sam just managed to utter the words before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped back to the floor, unconscious.

~* * * ~

Cas explained that Sam would need a lot more healing, but that it would have to be done in stages, and what he needed most now was rest and quiet. He sat vigil by Sam’s side, and encouraged Dean to go and get some rest of his own instead of hovering. But it was Marnie who had finally persuaded Dean to leave Sam’s room.

“He ain’t gonna forgive you any faster if you’re there when he wakes up,” she said. “You listen to me, Dean Winchester. Cas and Woody told me all about you two. You’re gonna have to learn to let him stand on his own, and what’s more, you’ve got to do the same. You’re a grown man, and so is he. He’s gonna have some things to say to you when he wakes up, and you’ve gotta let him say ‘em. What’s more, you’ve gotta do somethin’ about ‘em. You’ve gotta give him some reason to believe you’re gonna do things differently next time.”

He’d nodded unhappily and got up to leave the room, mostly to get her to stop talking. But she’d followed him out.

“You just spend some time thinking about what you’re gonna do different, and what you’re gonna say to him to let him know. Don’t rush things,” she said to him. She was being strangely kind for someone who’d punched him just an hour or so ago, he reflected grumpily. If Cas weren’t busy with Sam, he’d be tempted to ask him for healing. His neck was sore from where it had snapped back when she hit him, and his jaw throbbed. He’d gotten less painful punches from seriously pissed-off demons.

“And you can show me ‘n Jake where we can sleep,” she continued. “We’ll go back home in the morning, ‘less Cas needs me for somethin’.”

Dean couldn’t help smiling at Marnie’s assumption that an angel of the lord would need her help. After all, she was right.

“Home?” he asked dully. Anything to get her to stop talking about him and Sam.

“Yep. I’m takin’ Jake home with me, whatever Bill says. Do you know why he was out in those woods? He had no place to go, and he was thinkin’ about killin’ himself. Healthy, smart, good-lookin’ young man like that! But he had a lot o’ burdens. Like Woody asked, I’m gonna see if I can help him find his way. Maybe we’ll look into some scholarships, see if we can get him in school somewhere.”

Dean found a room they could sleep in, told them where the kitchen was and that there was probably no food in it—Marnie clucked disapprovingly—and retreated to his room. He paused for a moment by Kevin’s door, heard him singing in that too-loud way he did when he was listening to headphones, and decided the kid was probably all right. No one he had to take care of right now. 

Except himself, as Marnie had suggested, which was kind of a laugh. When had he ever done that?

He stared around his room, assaulted by the thick silence. Although he felt exhausted, depressed, and faintly sick, under it still lay the panic he’d been feeling for weeks, terror of losing Sam that was like an apple he had to keep eating—an apple that was hiding razor blades of guilt: about Sam, about Cas, about their father, about the world.

The adrenaline wouldn’t leave his body. He felt it hadn’t left his body in years. Something always trying to kill him, or Sam, or destroy the world and it was somehow his fault. Everything was.

There was a bottle of Jim Beam on his dresser with a tumbler next to it. He poured a shot, but didn’t drink it. Even the thought of getting drunk, just numbing himself enough to stop feeling the dull panic and fall asleep, held no appeal at all.

What he wanted, oddly, was not to talk to Sam, though he knew he needed to, desperately. His thoughts instead turned to Cas. He still hadn’t been able to say what he needed to say to him. He still had no idea what that even was. But Cas had done _everything_ for him, for Sam. Even if it was Wormwood’s life that had been sacrificed, it had been Cas who had brought him to them, who had faithfully returned to help Dean, again and again, even when Dean had literally slammed the door in his face. Turned his back on him when _he_ needed help. 

Now Cas no longer needed anything from him, and Dean thought that, if he were smart, he would finish healing Sam and then leave the whole miserable, fucked up Winchester saga behind forever. Wipe that sad, human dust off his feet and never look back.

~* * * ~

Cas sat by Sam’s side, listening to his breath ease into sleep. He ached for the loss of Wormwood, the only angel he had met in centuries who was truly as an angel should be. He knew he would grieve him for a long time, but right now, as usual, the Winchesters needed him. He hoped. His greatest fear was that they would not need him, or want him, for long.

Sam had not said a word in the brief moments when he’d been awake, except to answer Cas’s queries about how he felt, and to thank him for the healing. Cas had not attempted any conversation. He knew he could heal Sam’s body eventually, ravaged as it was. He had no idea how to heal his heart, or the rift between him and Dean, if they could be healed at all. But then he reflected on the incredible strength he had seen inside Sam, how he had thought he’d never seen a strength like that in any human before, and realized he was wrong. That strength was also in Dean. 

The two of them were so strong they battered each other half to death, all the time. But if that strength, that will, could be turned toward truth, healing, and reconciliation, the Winchesters could not just mend that rupture—they could become an unstoppable force. They could mend the world, in addition to saving it.

Thinking of Dean made Cas desperate, as it always did these days. It felt amazing to have his power back, but it did nothing to heal his heart. He had thought his feelings for Dean would be… less physical, if no less intense, but they were unchanged. Now that he was with him again, they were worse, if anything. The thought that, in moments, he could be touching him—that he could just walk into Dean’s room and, without even having to explain himself, lay a hand on his shoulder, grip his arm, even embrace him—

He stopped himself, but realized, as he did, that he was no longer by Sam’s bedside. He was in the hallway outside Dean’s bedroom, and his hand was on the doorknob.

Why should he not enter? All he wanted was to see Dean’s face. All he wanted in this world. 

A lie. He wanted more than that. But he would take just that. He could not bear otherwise.

He knocked on the door, and it opened, and he got his wish.

“Hey,” said Dean, uncomfortably, and Cas felt a thrill of fear. Dean’s demeanor was exactly like it had been when he’d crushed Cas’s heart before, when he’d told him he couldn’t stay. Cas straightened himself, preparing for another such blow. But Dean needed him to heal Sam…

“C’mon in. Uh…I was just gonna come see if you… wanted to talk.”

Cas’s heart quailed further. The words were so like Dean’s words the last time. 

He would not beg. He wouldn’t.

“Is Sam OK?”

“He is sleeping,” Cas answered automatically. “He will need to sleep a great deal, to heal, but I will listen for his mind, and if he wakes, or there is something wrong, I will know.”

“I know you will, Cas. And… thank you. For everything. And I’m sorry about Wormwood. He was a good guy. Not a dick like most of ‘em.” Dean attempted a smile, but it faded quickly. “Sorry. I mean… I know he was your friend. Sorry, Cas.”

“He was a very… good guy,” said Cas. “His death is on me, Dean. Not you.”

Dean shook his head, but seemed at a loss for words. Cas’s heart eased a little. This did not seem to be a goodbye speech. Dean paced the room, turned away from Cas, then turned abruptly back. He stepped forward so quickly Cas flinched, but then he gripped Cas’s shoulder, painfully tight.

“Cas,” Dean said. He spoke quickly, as though afraid the words would be lost before he could speak them. “I’m sorry. I am. I don’t even know what to say to you, man. After everything I did to you. And didn’t do _for_ you. You came back, you brought Wormwood with you, and you lost him… you saved our asses _again,_ and Sam might deserve it, but I sure as hell don’t. I know you think that we don’t know how much you sacrificed for us, but we do. _I_ do. And I pay my debts. If there is ever anything that you need—anything I can do for you—I will be there. I swear. You just tell me what you need.”

Cas’s heartbeat was loud in his own ears. Dean’s grip on his shoulder, his closeness after such a long time apart, just the fact that he was _touching_ him when he had longed for it so desperately for months, even years if he admitted it to himself… Cas had not known that humans could _feel_ so much. 

He still felt it, all of it, even though he was no longer human. And suddenly, he was tired of it. He was tired of holding back that tide in himself, questioning every move he made, every word he said, whether it was sin or blasphemy or appropriate or likely to make Dean punch him. Make him hate him. Suddenly, in this wild surge of feeling, he understood what made the Winchesters so confoundingly reckless and occasionally self-destructive. He did not, in this moment, care what happened to him next at all.

He turned, and instead of moving out of the zone Dean called “personal space,” he stood unyielding in the middle of it, stared into Dean’s eyes from the smallest distance that had ever stood between them since he raised him back into this world, and said, clearly, “I need you to kiss me.”

Dean went utterly, dangerously still beside him. Cas had felt this stillness in the hunter before. It came in the moments before he precisely aimed and fired his gun, before he leapt from cover into a tangle of monsters, wielding a machete with cold, lethal grace.

He stood frozen, utterly expressionless, for so long that Cas’s courage began to erode. But he found that he could not retreat. “Please, Dean,” he whispered, not believing his own daring as his arms stole around the still figure, as he stepped even closer. “Please. Just once. If you do, I… maybe I can find a way to let it go, just… I… I have tried to stop feeling this, and I cannot. I can’t reason with it. I can’t stop it, and every time, every time you touch me, stand close to me… the way you… the sound of your voice… I… Dean…”

He stopped, flooded by desperate desire mixed with despair, for Dean had not moved—nothing on his face had moved, not even his eyes, to blink. The muscles of his back under Cas’s hands were as taut as steel cables, ready to snap from the tension, and surely Dean was about to strike him, shove him violently away, excoriate him for these feelings Cas should never have felt or dared to express, but if he did not say it now—

“I love you,” he said, and it was like an inversion of the world suddenly, like he had left his vessel, like he was truly angelic again and like he never had been, like he was every inch human, down to the center of the earth. He could not believe he had said it, and at once could not imagine how he had ever stayed silent, when there were a hundred, a thousand times when these were the only words in the world that made sense, the only thing he could possibly say to _Dean._ His Dean, his beloved, his world. 

Though he knew it was like caressing gunpowder with a match, he touched Dean’s face, stroked the beautiful planes with wondering hands and fell into that beautiful green gaze, knowing it would be the last time, it would all be shattered, any second now. “Dean,” he said wonderingly, “I—” 

And then he was crushed, by joy, by shock, by terror, by simple human strength, because Dean was kissing him. He seized Cas’s head in his hands and dragged him close, kissed him wildly, and it was so, so much more than he could hold, and he clung to Dean, pressed him as close as their bodies would allow, kissed him like he would never have to stop.

Dean’s thumbs brushed roughly over his cheekbones while his mouth moved more gently against Cas’s; he cupped his jaw and tugged at his collar in an effort to bring Cas closer. Cas consumed what Dean gave, responding with aching desperation, clutching Dean tightly, until his lungs begged for air and Dean’s mouth finally broke free and he gasped against Cas’s lips for one second before kissing him again, even harder, his tongue sliding deliriously into his mouth.

When Cas’s vision began to dim as oxygen became scarce, their lips parted again, and as Cas sucked in the Dean-flavored air, Dean said hoarsely, “That what you had in mind?”

“Yes,” Cas whispered. As soon as Dean stopped kissing him, despair began to rise in him, as inexorable as the frantic desire that left him weak, sure he would be unable to stand if Dean weren’t holding him up, because Dean had said _I pay my debts._ Cas had asked him to kiss him once, and he had kissed him twice, for interest Cas was sure, and now the debt was paid. Now—

“C’mon,” Dean said, and Cas’s heart stopped as Dean, unbelievably, pressed himself tightly to him; he felt the line of his body all along his from shoulder to knee as his back pressed into the wall. “Is that _all_?” He bent one knee and arched against Cas, grinding his hips against his. Cas gasped helplessly, shuddering as Dean’s motion rubbed against his aching erection; impossibly, he felt a hard bulge in Dean’s jeans, too. “I say _anything,_ you’re carrying this Olympic-sized torch for me, and you ask for a _kiss?_ ” 

He chuckled softly against Cas’s neck, and Cas shivered at the electricity that surged through him from the tickling warmth, the closeness of Dean’s lips. “Cas,” Dean murmured, and Cas whimpered at the sound of his name on those lips, lips that now trailed along his jaw and closed around his earlobe. “I’m gonna have to teach you some bargaining skills.”

Cas was trembling so hard that it shook Dean’s body against his. He did not understand what Dean was suggesting; he only understood that Dean hadn’t moved away, had in fact moved closer, and was touching him… he seized his courage and kissed him. Dean made a soft, surprised sound in his throat and kissed him back, slower this time, and Cas pulled him close. He couldn’t process the miracle, but he would leap on it, before Dean could withdraw whatever offer he was making.

“Bargaining skills?” Cas prompted, when they paused again for breath.

Dean smiled, and this close, with his eyes burning soft like shadowed leaves inches away, Cas thought it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “Well,” Dean said, circling Cas with his arms, sliding his hands sensuously under his shirt, “if there’s something you really want, you have to put it on the table. Then you figure out what you have to do to get it.”

“And what will I have to do?” Cas asked. He mirrored Dean’s actions, his hands shyly seeking skin, and was rewarded by Dean’s soft intake of breath.

“Just tell me what it is. Deal of a lifetime.”

“Then… then…”

“Yeah?” Dean teased gently, drawing Cas across the room toward the bed.

Cas stumbled after him, his breath coming quicker as Dean ushered him to sit on the bed and sat next to him, sliding one arm around him. “I want…” He turned, took hold of Dean’s shirt. “I want to undress you.”

Dean leaned in and kissed Cas’s neck, covering his hand with his where it clutched his collar. “You know how buttons work,” he said, caressing Cas’s wrist.

He did, but it was hard to remember with Dean’s breath on his neck, his lips brushing his jawline, one hand sneaking up the back of his shirt while the other caressed his encouragingly. He managed, eventually, to remove Dean’s shirt. Dean lay back then, giving Cas a smoldering, challenging look as he rested his hand on the top button of his jeans. Cas moved forward tremblingly, took Dean’s hand and set it aside, and unbuttoned his jeans while Dean watched, stroking his hair occasionally.

Naked, Dean was almost too beautiful to look upon. Cas could barely control his frantic breathing, which Dean seemed to like. “Not gonna stop there, are ya? You’re doing all the work, maybe it’s time for me to step up. Did this undressing wish go both ways?”

“Yes,” Cas whispered.

The smile that Dean gave him as he expertly slid Cas’s clothes off could melt his bones, Cas thought, and when Dean returned, after tossing Cas’s pants on the floor, to embrace him, naked, the slide of his bare skin against Cas’s suddenly burned through the last of Cas’s hesitation.

He seized Dean and pulled him down on the bed, frantically covering his mouth with his, and between kisses, he gasped, “I want… I want…”

“Tell me,” Dean breathed in his ear. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you everything.”

The words poured out of Cas in a raging flood, words and caresses that had been dammed so long that, breaking through, they threatened to drown them both. “I want you, oh Dean, I want you, please, I want you to take me, I want your mouth and hands all over me, I want to touch you everywhere, I want to taste you, I want you to kiss me and bite me and tease me, I want to lick you and suck you, I want you inside me, I want you riding me, all the things you’ve done to women, I want you to do them to me…”

His words were broken by frantic cries as Dean’s answering caresses seared him. He moaned desperately as Dean rolled him onto his back and pinned him to the bed with his body.

“Slow down, angel,” Dean breathed. “One thing at a time, and you’ll get it all. I got you. I’ll take care of you.” He stroked Cas’s face, kissed him heatedly and lingeringly. “You just enjoy the ride.”

~* * * ~

Afterward, they lay in Dean’s bed, caressing each other slowly. Cas had spoken so much, telling Dean what he felt, what he wanted, that he had used up all his words. He lay silent now in the crook of Dean’s arm, simply reveling in the closeness of him, the past healed, the future erased. There was only now.

“Cas,” Dean said finally. “I wish you’d told me this before. I could’ve done something about it years ago.”

“You could?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, propping himself on his elbow so he could see Cas’s face, “why not?”

“Because…” Cas thought hard. It was forbidden. It was sin. Dean liked women. Dean always put Sam first. “I did not think you cared for me in this way,” he finally said. It was the only objection that mattered.

“I guess I thought you didn’t. Wouldn’t, even if you could,” Dean said. “Look, I… you know, I couldn’t get used to the idea. Me with a guy. But you, Cas…” He sighed. “It was always there. Ever since you… pulled me out.” He gestured to the burn scar in the shape of Cas’s hand on his shoulder. “I figured Sam would freak out if I did something about it. And… you know. The apocalypse, all that angel crap… it could’ve gotten ugly if I’d made a move back then. We got pretty mad at each other sometimes.” 

His eyes clouded, and Cas wondered if he would simply gloss over Cas’s greatest crimes: breaking down Sam’s wall, dealing with Crowley, unleashing the Leviathan.

It seemed he would. “But it was mostly just… you, that I didn’t think you’d go for it,” he continued. He grinned, and Cas reflected that, no matter how long he lived or what happened to him in this life, that expression would always crack his heart. “Man, if I’d had any idea about this torch you were carryin’, angel or not, straight or not, I’d’ve dragged you back to my cave by the hair long before this.”

Cas had learned to recognize when Dean was using a metaphor or figure of speech, but this one alarmed him a bit. “I… do not have much hair suitable for dragging,” he ventured hesitantly.

Dean laughed. “Well, hopefully you’d’ve come under your own power.” His eyes lit up and he gave a lascivious grin, eyes roving down Cas’s body. “You sure came under _my_ power. More than once.”

This time Cas understood. “And will again,” he said, grinning back, but his smile turned shy as he said, “I hope.”

Dean smiled at him again, so sweetly that it made Cas’s heart whole rather than cracking it this time. “Have faith, angel,” he said, and kissed him.

~The End~


End file.
